


A Princess of the Blood

by stopmopingstarthoping



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Royalty, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 12:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/pseuds/stopmopingstarthoping
Summary: Felicity's princess is dear to her, and she will do whatever it takes to keep Her Grace safe, as well as her secrets.
Relationships: Handmaiden To A Princess/Vampire Everyone But Her Thinks Is Human, Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Princess Savonne/Felicity the Handmaiden
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41
Collections: Femslash Exchange 2019





	A Princess of the Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havocthecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havocthecat/gifts).

I’ll never tell her secret. She is safe with me.

She is a gorgeous creature of simultaneous fragility and strength, like lace made bone. Most of the visitors to her Court mark it down to royal heritage, to generations of beautiful people paired and concentrated, distilled into this stunning generation.

They’re not wrong, of course. Because she was beautiful, even before. 

I smile at my own private thoughts and ask her guests if they would like more wine. I attend to my mistress’ train and spread the rich, embroidered fabric over the floor while pondering her newfound beauty, as well as the old.

Her preternaturally quick eyes catch the sight of me and flick away too fast for anyone to notice. Everyone else thinks my blush is for the brash, charming Duke who is visiting, kissing hands and bestowing winks and dimples on all the courtiers within a ten-foot radius. 

He's just greasing the diplomatic wheels and being himself, honestly, and even Crown Princess Savonne can't help reflecting his charm back to him, filtered through the stained-glass window of ruby-plum lips, glittering azure eyes, and the pale, delicate hair and skin that are her birthright. 

I remind her, later, behind the heavy door of her bedchamber, that she is _ mine. _

Under my rough, claiming touch she whispers my name, and it's a better prize than a dozen duchies, a stack of letters patent, a pile of jewels. I nip hard at her neck in a crude imitation of Her Lethal Grace, and she laughs. My lips trail lower, and the laugh drifts into a sharp inhale tinged with anticipation.

"_Felicity_." It's little more than a breath, a sigh, and my hands tighten their grip on her hips. 

She is mine, and she knows it. As I am hers. 

The sharpening of her canines just before they sink past the surface of my skin is enough to turn my knees to water. It’s a powerful sight; fortuitous indeed that none have seen that but me. 

Well. None living still.

I’ll never tell her secret, because it’s my secret, too.

We share and delight in her life; no longer does she cry bitter tears into my shoulder; no more do the words “cursed” or “abomination” spill from her rosy, plush lips. Those years were hard, but we weathered them together. 

Now, we are united in our devotion to her gifts. They have become rites of joy, ecstatic traditions, a celebration of the unique and singular being that she is. That she always has been, really, simply sharpened by her transformation into a Platonic ideal.

The private glasses of “wine” in her chambers that she drinks are not wine. No more than I am a vine, than she is a vintner, but she enjoys them all the more for it. She prefers it straight from the source, she likes to tell me, with a devilish glint in those twilight-blue eyes, but a glass will do when she hasn't the option. 

At dinner, sometimes, I will pour her a glass from her "private royal reserve." She will reach up as I bend down and twirl one of my dark curls around her pale finger, surreptitiously. 

In front of everyone, she will savor her cup, peeking heated glances over its silvered rim at me. It is so intimate, and yet she revels in tasting it before everyone. The heat rushes under my skin and makes me tremble. She enjoys it—enjoys _ me _—before the whole table, and I feel as though she is taking me apart right there. She could reach under my skirts, cup my breast, and it would feel less scandalous, less exposed, than watching her sip my very life’s essence. 

One night, I kept her glass and poured what remained over my skin, the skin that she calls "burnished bronze," when we were alone. I watched as she traced the rivulets with a needy tongue, keening in her desire for _ more_, breaking my skin only when she'd licked it clean. Trembling with her desire for what throbbed between my legs, what strained under her cool hands, what flowed within my veins. She wanted to possess me, and she lapped at my folds and at the tiny darts of pleasure in my neck with equal hunger. 

She was slightly too hungry for the one, and we both said later that we regretted a little how far things went that night. I had to lie abed for three days after, floating in a haze, an echo of the furious riot of sensation we had enjoyed together. I rose ravenous for beef and real, red wine. I thought of her claret-stained teeth every time I lifted a glass, and I realized that truly, I could bring myself to regret nothing. 

How do I claim to know how she feels for me, how she hungers for me? Because I lose myself in my desire for her as well. I want her eyes to become black pools rimmed with blue at _ my _ hand. I want her cheeks, her chest flushed red with want for _ me_. I want to lose myself in her flowing hair, her gleaming skin, her flowery scent, her glistening sex, forever. I yearn for those nights when I cannot tell where I end and she begins, when we are twisted together and each breath is a tingling shock of nerves that bursts with pleasure like a ripe berry. 

I will protect those nights as fervently as our knights claim to protect the realm. 

If you happen upon us in a dark wood, if you happen to catch her in the glorious act of taking sustenance, rest assured that I will not be far behind.

She is safe with me. 

You may notice, in your last moments, that my eyes reflect the light, a quick yellowish sheen that strikes you as not quite right, that puts you in mind of a deer or a fox rather than a human being. 

Unfortunately, it will be one of the final mysteries you are able to ponder.

After all, I have my secrets, too.


End file.
